Don't Let Me Fall
by quoththeblackbird
Summary: "I'm nauseous and shaking. 'Don't let me fall,' I whisper to Peeta. 'Course I won't. I've got you,' he replies as he gently wraps his arm around my waist." Sick!Katniss. Caring Peeta. Goofy-but-still-nice Haymitch. Prompt from 123faroutglee.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Thanks to 123faroutglee for the request! Sick!fic is a HUGE guilty pleasure of mine. I'm glad that someone wants to read it (may not be exactly what you wanted, but I'm having a blast writing). It gives me a good excuse to do my favorite thing and torture my characters by making them sick and thinking about sex.

Takes place during the Victory Tour in Catching Fire.

Don't own The Hunger Games. Do own pen and paper.

**Don't let me fall**

Haymitch bangs on the door again. "You gotta come out, sweetheart. It's okay if you're hung over," he chuckles, "No judgment here."

I lift my chin from the toilet seat and rest my forehead on it instead. I comb one hand through my tangled hair and sigh, not wanting to see anyone right now.

"Come on, Katniss." This time it's Peeta. I should get up. Wash my face. Drink some more water. Crawl back into bed. I'm done vomiting. Have been for the last 20 minutes or so. I just can't seem to scrape myself up off the bathroom floor.

"At least open the door," Peeta insists, "I need to see that you're okay."

"Go away," I moan into the crook of my elbow.

The first torrent of sickness had come at about three in the morning. We hadn't been back on the train for two hours. Peeta and I were laying in bed listening to each other breathe. I was feeling my headache get worse by degrees, and I wondered if I should get out from under Peeta's arm. I didn't move until I had to rush to the toilet, though, and I managed to accidentally wallop him in the stomach with my knee before I took off and locked him out of the bathroom.

I tossed up my dinner while Peeta hammered on the door. Then I slept for an hour or so curled on the floor in front of the toilet. I woke up trembling and feverish. I slowly drank a glass of water, but it didn't stay down. I guess when Peeta heard me gagging again he went to get Haymitch.

Judging by the early dawn light coming through the window, it's a little after five in the morning. They've been trying to coax me out of the bathroom for a good half hour now. Each time one of their fists hits the door, a stabbing throb passes through my head. I should just let them in. But instead, I groan, "Stop it. You're making my head hurt."

I can hear Haymitch laughing. "Sweetheart. We get it. You're cranky. Just don't take it out on those of us who want to help you."

"Fuck you," I say. But I stand up. Dizzily stumble to the sink and rinse out my mouth. I suck the water straight from the tap, not bothering with the glass. I'm sure I'd have dropped it. I fumble with the lock and open the door. Haymitch almost falls on top of me, but he manages to catch himself on the doorframe.

"Katniss, are you okay?" Peeta says. We both know it's a stupid question.

"Fine," I answer. I rub my fingers over the goose bumps on my arms. I'm freezing. I look down at myself and see that I'm wearing only my underwear and a soft shirt that falls to my hips. I remember kicking my pants off earlier when I felt like I was boiling. The shirt is sweaty and sticking to me, and there's a dribble of puke down the front. I should have put on the robe that is hanging on a hook in the bathroom.

"Excuse me," I say. I push past Haymitch and Peeta and re-enter the bedroom. I don't know why I'm here. I want to strip and take a hot shower, then lay down somewhere where no one will bother me. None of this will be achieved in the bedroom with Peeta and Haymitch.

I start rifling through a dresser drawer for something clean to put on. Peeta's suddenly right behind me. "Hey," he whispers. His hand is on my shoulder, and it feels unbearably cold. A gasp of discomfort passes through my lips before I can stop it. "Katniss," he says, bringing the other hand to my cheek, "Your fever's really high."

I know he means well. I do. And part of me wants it, to curl up in his lap and sleep for the next twenty years or so. But the rest of me feels so shitty that I can barely stand his presence. "I'm gonna take a shower," I sigh. I grab a thin cotton nightgown and fresh underwear and head back to the bathroom. I slam the door behind me and lock it again for good measure.

I'm infinitesimally glad that I've learned how to use the shower controls. I make a soft rain of minty smelling water pour over my sore body. I don't try to wash; I just stand under it and sigh. We still have eight districts and the Capital to tour before we go home to District 12. That's at least ten days of traveling. I wish the whole tour could be called off, but that's probably out of the question since there have been so many elaborate preparations for our visits. It's still so early, maybe I can get a few hours of sleep before arrive in District 8 this afternoon.

When I emerge from the steamy bathroom, Effie is sitting on my freshly made bed. She's rattling three pill bottles in each hand. Haymitch is leaning against the wall.

"What's wrong? What are the symptoms?" Effie says urgently. It sounds so funny in her trilling voice.

"I told you already," Haymitch says in a bored voice. "She's hung over. Probably knocked up, too." He grins at me. I scowl.

"Enough, Haymitch!" Effie snaps. "Katniss?" She asks softly.

"I'm just…" I start. What am I? Not drunk or pregnant for sure. Stressed? Food poisoned? Motion sick? Riddled with viruses? "Sick," I finish, rubbing my forehead with the heel of my hand.

"Ahhh," Effie sighs with a sympathetic pout. "Erm. Symptoms?"

"Uhhh," I say. For whatever reason, I feel intensely embarrassed. "Uh, headache. Fever," I swallow hard. "Throwing up. And my throat's a little rough."

Effie rattles through her pill bottles, reading the labels and muttering to herself. She shakes tablets out of four of them and holds the handful of medication out to me along with a glass of water from the bedside table. I down the pills and hand the glass back before she can see me shaking.

"They should kick in by lunchtime, which is about when we'll be pulling into District 8. Effie stands up and totters toward the door. "Alright, well." She smoothes her skirt and leaves the bedroom.

Haymitch goes to follow her. On his way out, he claps me on the shoulder, hard. I wince. "Get some sleep," he says. "Some greasy breakfast, a little coffee, maybe a shot of liquor…" He smiles.

"Fuck. You."

As soon as the door shuts behind Haymitch, I collapse onto the bed without pulling down the covers. I let my eyes gently drift shut. My heart is beating in sync with the throbbing of my head.

The door opens once more. It's Peeta. I hear the uneven gait of his prosthetic leg. He comes to the edge of the bed and palms my forehead again. "Effie gave me pills. Haymitch thinks I'm hung over. And that you knocked me up," I whisper.

Peeta laughs softly. "How are you?" He asks.

"I'll be okay," I say.

"You need anything?" I see the worried creases on his forehead.

"No. We're just going back to bed until we get to 8."

I said "we." We're going back to bed. I'm shaky and nauseous and tender, but I do want him with me.

"Okay," Peeta kisses my forehead, then crawls onto the bed beside me. He pulls a thin blanket from the foot of the bed up to my waist. He strokes my arm, and I let my aching body relax into his solid chest.

"It'll be okay," Peeta murmurs. "Just relax for a while." I close my eyes and sleep.

A/N: More chapters to come. Please R&R!


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Biting the cuticle off my right thumb and listening to Revolution Radio Hunger Games Podcast (shameless plug) as I write. Just thought you might want to know.

**Chapter 2**

When I open my eyes, I'm all sweaty again. Peeta is running his fingers through my hair. I turn to face him, pressing my forehead into his chest.

"Hey," he whispers.

"Hey," I mumble into his shirt.

"How are you feeling?"

I take a quick inventory of my aching head and body. "Mmmm. Sick," I say.

"I know," Peeta soothes, trying to get a hand on my face to feel my fever.

"What time is it?" I ask, pushing myself to a sitting position before Peeta can reach my cheek.

"I don't know. It's light outside," he says with a smile. "Probably a couple of hours to lunch."

I sigh. Not too much longer before we have to appear in public. Soon my prep team will be prodding me into perfection. I think of how painful this is going to be. Feeling dejected, I slump back onto the pillows. Peeta wraps an arm around me. I go to sleep again.

I must have really passed out, because the next time I open my eyes Peeta is sitting on the edge of the bed. Effie is standing behind him.

"Think you can manage some breakfast?" Peeta asks. He's holding a cup of broth in his lap.

I push myself up onto the pillows. "I guess so."

Peeta scoops a spoonful of broth and slowly brings it to my lips. I swallow the hot liquid. It feels good on my throat. He feeds me another sip.

"Katniss." Effie speaks up. "We'll be pulling into district 8 in a little over an hour." She thrusts a glass of water and another couple of pills at me.

"What do these things do?" I ask. Now I'm awake enough to care what I'm taking.

"Fever reducer. Anti nausea," Effie explains.

"Okay," I say as I toss the tablets into my mouth.

Effie takes the broth from Peeta and pushes it into my water-free hand. "Your prep team will be in shortly," she says. "Yours will too," she says to Peeta, pulling him up and steering him out of the room.

"See you soon," Peeta says as the door closes.

I sit there stupidly, looking down at the broth and water in my hands. I don't want to get up. I really don't want to be plucked and painted into perfection. I'm a little hungry for something more substantial than broth, but I think it probably won't stay down. I'll probably puke all over the steps to the justice building.

The bedroom door opens again. I screw my eyes shut, waiting for the shrill squeals of my preps. But there are only quiet footsteps coming toward the bed. Cool lips graze my forehead. "Girl on fire," Cinna says softly.

I open my eyes and smile up at Cinna. "Hey," I whisper.

"You're sick," he says.

"Did Haymitch tell you I was drunk?"

"Pregnant, actually." Cinna replies with a grin. I laugh quietly. My head throbs.

Cinna doesn't make me get out of bed. He just pulls up a chair and begins to comb my hair with gentle fingers. I drink a little more broth and sit with my eyes closed.

Cinna finishes my hair and starts on my makeup. He promises not to use much, and he rubs the liquid pigments between his fingers to warm them before applying them to my face. I feel better than I had earlier, but I'm still achy to the point of being miserable.

The prep time isn't nearly as bad as I thought it would be. When I'm lightly made up, Cinna helps me into my outfit. Soft black pants like the ones I wore for the reunion in 12. A pale green silky blouse with long sleeves and a high waist. The hem falls to my upper thighs. My hair is loose and curling around my shoulders. I'm grateful that my hairstyle isn't one that will make headache worse. Cinna pins my mockingjay to the blouse. I step into my shoes, which, to my relief, don't have high heels.

Cinna takes my arm. We exit the bedroom and walk down the train. Haymitch, Effie, Peeta, and Portia are waiting in the sitting area.

"You look lovely," Effie trills.

"Thanks," I say, acutely aware of how rough my voice is. Effie notices too, and she gives me a peppermint lozenge.

The train begins to slow, and minute later the doors are open and Peacekeepers and important people are helping us off the train and into a car. I sit next to Peeta and rest my head on his shoulder. I'm cold. And hot. And tired. I sigh a little.

"It'll be over soon," Peeta whispers.

A/N: R&R please! More coming soon (maybe later tonight if I'm not to sleepy).


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: "I-I-I wanna ta-a-ake you awa-a-ay— take you from the Hunger Games…!" Just kidding. But if you haven't seen the video, look it up. It's awesome.

Actually, "Hot Blooded" was playing on the radio when I was coming home from the grocery store, so that's my inspiration for this chapter.

And I know I plugged revolution radio in my last chapter, but I've reconnected with my homeboy Andrew Sims and am now an avid listener of Hypable's Hunger Games Chat. Sorry Revolutionaries. But your intro is the bomb.

**Chapter 3**

The car pulls up behind the justice building and we slide out into the cool sunshine. I'm queasy. I use my sleeve to wipe droplets of sweat from my upper lip. The mayor of District 8 greets us and ushers our party through the back door of the building.

The building is cavernous and echo-y. The tiled floors are so shiny that I can see my reflection under my feet. I hold tightly to Peeta's hand, afraid that I'm going to fall over. The mayor speaks in a chirpy, jovial voice as he leads us through rooms, pointing out statues and paintings and important plaques.

I'm not paying attention. At all. We walk past a dining room, and, like all the districts we've already visited, I can smell the dinner that is being prepared for us. I'm glad we quickly pass the door. I'm not sure I can take the scent of food for long.

When the tour is finished, Peeta and I are left in an entrance hall to wait the few minutes until our grand appearance in front of District 8's population. Effie, Haymitch, and the stylists are settled in a sitting room off the hall to watch our speeches on television.

I pace before the large front doors, holding my forehead with one hand. I breathe deeply and run through my speech in my head. I can do this. I can spend three minutes on camera. What will happen after that, I have no idea. But I can do this.

An attendant comes down the hall. "Hold still," she says sharply as she attaches a microphone to my blouse. I want to reply with something snappish, but I can't think of anything to say. So I dab some more perspiration from my lip.

The mayor of District 8 comes down the hall, his shiny black shoes slapping down the tiled floor. "I'm heading out to introduce you now. You follow in 45 seconds. Your mikes go live when you come through the doors," he directs. I nod. Peeta is at my side clutching my hand.

The mayor slips through the doors. I immediately hear him announce my and Peeta's names, followed by clapping. I've forgotten that I'm supposed to be counting until Peeta is guiding me forward. I'm nauseous and shaking. "Don't let me fall," I whisper to Peeta.

"'Course I won't. I've got you," he replies as he gently wraps his arm around my waist.

We push through the doors and stand at the top of the steps, staring out at the massive crowd. The sun is bright, so I'm squinting, but the crowd seems impeccably organized. They are arranged in perfect rows, staring up at us. I suppose this is the result of living in a highly organized, factory-oriented society.

The mayor gestures toward us from behind his podium. Peeta begins the memorized speech. I have to clear my throat a little before I can say my part. I get my lines out, then stand silently. My hands are clammy, and the faces of the crowd are blending together. There is a faint scent of industrial exhaust in the air, which is turning my stomach. I'm hoping I can make it through the acceptance of the awards.

The mayor turns to Peeta and me. He's gesturing toward us as he speaks. Probably talking about all our great accomplishments. Two attendants come forward with dinner plate sized plaques, which the mayor presents to us. Peeta graciously thanks the mayor and all of District 8. I'm glad he does, because I can't will myself to open my mouth. Finally, there is applause. Peeta raises his arm to wave, and guides me back toward the doors to the Justice Building.

I shove my award at Peeta and bolt toward a large planter outside the door. A tall, thick green bush is growing in the waist high concrete box. It's the only bit of greenery I've seen in this extremely mechanized district. I'm doubled over, puking what little is in my stomach into the dirt. I hear the double clunk as the awards fall to the ground. Peeta has dropped them as he rushes to my side. He holds my hair out of my face with one hand and keeps the other around my waist to keep me from pitching forward.

I finish gagging and try to spit the horrible taste from my mouth. It's minty and faintly chemical from all the shit Effie gave me. "It's okay," Peeta soothes, stroking my hair. I feel like I'm going to black out. I'm leaning heavily against him as I struggle to find my feet.

"Did…did they see?" I choke out. I'm not sure why I care. What does it matter if all of District 8 sees that I'm sick? It'll certainly help my case with President Snow if I'm too weak to incite a rebellion. But somewhere deep inside me I don't want to meet Snow's demands. I want to appear strong and independent.

"No. Bush is blocking us," Peeta says. "They probably think we're making out."

I force out a tiny laugh. "They're all still there?" Of course they are. Our public appearance has only been over for about a minute.

"Yeah," says Peeta. "We've got to get out of here. Get you inside before anyone gets suspicious."

I can practically read his thoughts. I know how he plans for us to emerge from the cover of the bush. I spit one more glob of mucous into the planter before Peeta picks up the plaques and pulls me around the corner and into public view. He keeps one arm securely around me and palms my burning cheek with the other. Peeta kisses me gently, pressing his lips to my face slightly to the left of my mouth. I hear the crowd sigh. He kisses my forehead, then guides me through the doors and into the Justice Building.

A/N: Update coming soon. There will probably be 2ish more chapters in this story. PLEASE REVIEW! I've had almost 1,000 hits and only 4 reviews! That's a 0.4% review rate. At least bring it up to 1%! Thanks friends!


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: I just adore torturing these characters.

**Chapter 4**

As soon as we're inside, I lean against the shiny stone wall. I turn and face the marble, pressing my hot, clammy forehead to the coolness. Peeta is stroking my back. His hand is warm and heavy. The pressure makes me want to bow forward and vomit some more.

"Get off," I whisper, shrugging out from under his hand.

"Okay," Peeta says calmly, "It's okay." He leans against the wall beside me. I glance up at him, and our eyes meet.

The distinctive clacking of Effie's high heels comes toward us from down the hall. A few other sets of footsteps follow. I'm sure it's Haymitch, Cinna, and Portia. As they approach, I hear their gasps and exclamations echoing through the hall.

"What happened?" It's Effie, of course. "Your speeches weren't wonderful, but they weren't, well…"

Stars are blinking at the corners of my vision. I'm going to pass out if I don't sit down soon. I press my palms against the cool marble wall and try to formulate something to say. "I'm just—"

Suddenly the floor is dropping like I'm in an elevator. "Whoa—"

Haymitch and Peeta are on either side of me. It seems like no time has passed at all and I'm slumped on a couch in a small sitting room off the hall. I blink a few times. Cinna is sitting beside me, offering a glass of water. I take the glass in my shaking hand. I swallow a small sip, then hold the glass to my fevered cheek.

"Hey," Cinna murmurs, "You alright? You were really scaring me back there."

"I'm good," I say, trying to cool my other cheek.

"No, you're not." Peeta is standing at the arm of the couch closest to me. "You need to rest." He brushes a lock of hair from my face. I'm tender beyond belief. His fingers briefly make contact with my skin.

"Don't touch me," I snap. He's hurt. Peeta retracts his hand and uses it to rub his own jaw. I feel bad. In a lot of ways. "I love you, though," I say quietly. Why the hell did I say that? Do I mean it? Well, maybe. Part of my mind remembers all the nights with Peeta in my bed to soothe away the nightmares. But a larger part is entrenched in this moment and just how rotten I feel an dhow much I'd like to strip off my clothes and float on my back in a slow moving stream with no other human beings in a five-mile radius. I also have a fever. And I just passed out.

"Sorry," I say to no one in particular.

Effie thinks I'm talking to her. Of course she does. "It's quite all right. We are scheduled to be at dinner with the mayor in two hours, though. The event will be broadcast live just like all the others," Effie says with a worried trill. She begins to rattle through her handbag for the pill bottles.

"Goddamnit, Effie!" I moan, "I just threw up the last batch of those things."

"Can't you just cancel it?" Peeta barks at Effie. This is different. I'm usually the one who snaps at Effie. Peeta is the one to smooth things over afterward.

"No, we can't." Even more surprising, it's Haymitch who answers. "But believe me, that would be the best idea. Can't deprive the people of an evening with their little star crossed victors, now, can we?" He raises his eyebrows at me, and I understand what he's trying to imply. All the events have to go on camera as planned or President Snow will suspect I'm inciting rebellion in the districts.

"Yeah," I sigh, "Fine." I hold my forehead in my hands. "Just give me a few minutes."

Effie hesitates, clicks her shoes back and forth in front of the couch a few times, then leaves the room.

"I'll bring in your dress in an hour. We won't prep much before dinner," Cinna says as he gets up from the couch. I hear Portia's footsteps following him.

When the door closes behind them, Haymitch grabs my arm and pulls me up from the couch. I'm off balance and gasping with discomfort as he steers me out of another door and into a tiny bathroom. I sink down onto the closed toilet. He shoves Peeta into the wall beside me. Haymitch squeezes in front of the sink and shuts the door.

"What?" I ask indignantly.

"Now that we're not being overheard, I'm going to get you out of this," Haymitch says.

"Out of what?" I sigh.

"Get you out of the damn dinner party, sweetheart," Haymitch replies.

"How?" Peeta asks. He's skeptical.

"You," Haymitch gestures to me, "Didn't look so bad on TV earlier. Not so sick, just tired or stressed or something. So we'll play off that. Tonight you're going to have a drink."

"No!" I immediately exclaim.

"Hold on, sweetheart. You don't have to have a lot. Before they actually have us sit down to eat, there'll be an hour or so of walking around, chatting, you know, just like always. You get a glass of something, take a couple of sips, make sure the camera sees you. Set it down somewhere, get another one, talk to people," Haymitch holds my gaze. I know I have a slightly disgusted look on my face.

"It won't stay down!" I argue.

"You don't know that. Maybe a little liquor'll make you feel better," Haymitch smirks. "But all the better if it doesn't."

"Fuck," I whisper as I rub my forehead, which has begun to throb.

"Hey, hey, bear with me," Haymitch snaps. "We have to 'make the story unfold,' provide a reason before we up and leave. You," he pokes me in the thigh, "have a drink. Drown your sorrows, get tipsy. Then say you don't feel so good. Go to the bathroom. You," he claps Peeta on the shoulder, "Go check on her. Make sure she's okay. Then come back and tell us she's sick. Effie'll arrange for us to leave, we go back to the train, I have a drink, and we all sleep until this shit blows over."

Peeta's nodding, but I'm not convinced. "I'm going to look like some sort of idiot on national television," I say.

"You'll look human. All the Capital folks get wasted all the time. They'll be going around commiserating with your tough life, 'Poor Katniss,' and all that crap. Hell, you'll look like you learned from the best." Haymitch slaps his own chest.

"That's what I'm afraid of," I mutter. But I know it'll work.

I look up at Peeta. "You think…?" I don't really know what I want to say.

"Yeah," he says. "We'll get through it. Then you can sleep."

I nod. "Okay."

Haymitch opens the bathroom door and lets himself out. I shove myself to my feet and follow, heading back to the sitting room. I'm suddenly freezing. There's a furry blanket strewn over the back of the couch. I reach for it, but the slick fur slips to the floor.

Peeta appears behind me. He pulls the blanket from the ground and wraps it around my shoulders. I walk straight into Peeta's arms. I let him guide me to the couch, where we sit, my head resting against his chest.

I fall into a light doze, longing for this day to be over.

A/N: PLEASE R&R! More to come!


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Thanks so, so, so, so much for the reviews! I love you guys!

I heard someone say something a long time ago and I thought it was goofy, but now I really feel it, so I'm going to start saying it too: Reviews feed my muse!

**Chapter 5**

I am in some sort of hazy dreamland fog when the door to the sitting room opens again. Peeta's kissing me back to awareness, palming my sweaty forehead. I open my eyes and see Cinna draping a garment bag over a wooden chair in the corner.

"You awake?" Cinna asks.

"Yeah," I say softly.

"Got some rest?"

I nod, pushing my hair off my face. I look up at Peeta. "Thanks," I whisper. He kisses the tip of my nose.

Cinna comes and sits next to me on the couch again. "Hey," he says, patting my knee. "This won't be so bad."

I nod and try to smile.

"Portia's got you next door," Cinna says to Peeta. "I'll get her back to you real soon."

"Okay," Peeta says as he stands up. He plumps the couch cushions up behind me, kisses the top of my head, and leaves.

I want him to stay. I want to apologize for snapping at him earlier. But he's already gone. I run my fingers over my head where his lips last touched.

"How are you doing?" Cinna asks me, "and be honest."

"I'll make it for a while," I say. "But after that…" I sigh. "I don't fucking know." I'm losing it. I want to cry. I want to sleep. I want Peeta to hold me. I don't want to get drunk or pretend to get drunk at a stupid dinner party. I want the districts to go ahead and stomp on the face of the Capital. I want to punch President Snow in his grotesque, puffy mouth.

But I want my mother to tuck me into bed with warm blankets and a cool compress. I want Prim to sit beside me, hug me, and bring me slices of toast. I can't let them slip away. I can't let anyone hurt them. Especially not because of me.

I bury my face in the furry blanket and let the tears fall. Cinna guides my head into his lap. His hands cool the back of my neck as I cry. I sob until my head is pounding and I'm all out of tears.

When I sit up, Cinna leaves me sniffling for a moment and returns with a glass of water and a cool washcloth. He sponges smeared makeup from my face, then tosses more pillows behind me and begins combing my hair. I sip water and breathe deeply, trying to hydrate myself and get a handle on my emotions.

Cinna loosely gathers my hair with a jeweled barrette, then begins to apply a light layer of makeup. I start to relax, my heartbeat melding with my breathing and aches. It feels like barely a minute has passed, though it has been much longer, and Cinna is helping me to my feet. He shows me the outfit I'll wear, then helps me put it on.

I have a pale taupe satin dress. It is sleeveless and falls to my mid calves. Then there is a pair of soft leather flats and a creamy colored knit wrap. I sigh at the luxury of the wrap as Cinna drapes it over my shoulders.

"Cashmere," Cinna explains.

"Thank you," I say, pulling it closer around me.

"You look beautiful," He says, cupping my fevered cheeks. I force myself to smile. Cinna takes my arm and escorts me from the sitting room. We meet up with Peeta and Portia in the hall. Peeta takes my hand.

We wait a moment, and Effie and a very cleaned up looking Haymitch join us. Cinna squeezes my shoulder and gives an affirming nod before he and Portia depart. Effie starts jabbering about manners and schedules as she leads us to the dining room. Haymitch is scowling and raising his eyebrows, reminding me of our grand escape plan. I straighten my shoulders and take a huge breath through my mouth, trying not to smell the food that I know is waiting.

Effie pushes the door open, and Peeta and I enter with Haymitch a few steps behind us. The mayor comes forward to shake our hands and introduce his wife. I nod politely, not listening.

I scan the room, taking in all the trays of hors d'oeuvres. I locate a table populated with small glasses of amber liquid.

Letting go of Peeta's hand, I retrieve a cup of the alcohol, searching my brain for an appropriate emotion to portray. I settle on relief and try to arrange my face into a corresponding expression. I look around for the camera and am not surprised to find it right behind me. I raise my glass in a mock toast and act like I'm taking a swig while swallowing the tiniest amount possible.

The alcohol is sharp and burning, but it goes down easier than I expected. It tastes fairly decent too. There's a hint of nature, almost a maple. It tastes surprisingly like home. I hold the glass tightly and make my way back to Peeta, kiss him on the cheek, and nuzzle his neck.

We slowly make a circuit of the room, greeting people, kissing as we lean against the wall, and examining the trays of appetizers. I let Peeta feed me a bite of fluffy bread, but I can barely keep from sprinting in the opposite direction as we come upon a fragrant plate of fish and crackers.

I sneak my glass of liquor behind a vase as I bend close to a table displaying dishes of fruit. When Peeta and I make it back to the table of liquor glasses, I help myself to another. Peeta playfully teases me, saying that I should slow down and have something to eat. I just lay my head on my shoulder and kiss his cheek.

I don't know how long we've been meandering around the room, but after a while I begin to feel more tired and shaky. I'm on my fourth glass of the autumn-forest liquor. I've only consumed a couple of tablespoons of the brew, but my head is warm and light. Maybe it's just the fever.

Haymitch is coming toward Peeta and me. I toast him. We smile. Someone approaches to speak to us as a group. I get the bright idea to drop my glass so I don't have to think of some other way to get rid of it. It'll help with the tipsy act. The head peacekeeper is wishing us luck with the rest of the tour when I let go of the cup. It lands on Haymitch's foot, then bounces to the floor where it shatters.

Everyone is staring at me. There are a few seconds of silence, then Effie begins chirping apologies. She rushes to apprehend the attendant who is bringing me another drink. "Oh, she's had enough I'm sure, and it's nearly time to sit down to eat," she trills.

"Oh, come on," Haymitch says, handing me his own glass of alcohol, "Let her be her own girl on fire." He suppresses a belch.

I thank Haymitch, toast the peacekeeper, and plant a kiss on Peeta's mouth. He's surprised, but doesn't pull back as I slip my tongue between his lips. Just for the act. Maybe. I just hope I'm not passing on too many of my germs. When I emerge from the kiss, the room has swung back into action. But the camera is still on Peeta and me.

I take a cautious sip of the drink. It's not the autumn-forest liquor I'd been drinking before. This stuff is disgusting and slightly fizzy. I swallow more than I meant to, and I come up choking a little. Peeta puts his arm around my shoulders and chuckles at the camera. Then he looks at me.

My warm lightness is gone. My entire body is throbbing and my nausea has returned with a vengeance. Haymitch's glass is trembling in my hand.

"Katniss?" Peeta asks, a concerned note in his voice.

I push a loose lock of hair from my forehead. "I'm just…" I feel so sick. Shit. "I'm not feeling—excuse me."

I push away from Peeta and dash out of the dining room, down the hall, and into the nearest bathroom. I slam the door and begin to gag. A small amount of liquor and water comes up, most of it ending up down the front of my dress. I swear under my breath and kneel in front of the toilet, resting my head on the seat.

I shut my eyes and breathe deeply, trying to ignore the smell of puke. I just hope we can get out of here soon.

The bathroom door creaks open. I raise my head a little and look, squinting at the bright light spilling in from the hallway. I breathe in sharply as the glare assaults my eyes. Peeta is immediately kneeling beside me. He tenuously touches my shoulder. I don't pull away, and he wraps his solid arms completely around my trembling body. I tilt my head back onto his shoulder.

"I can't fucking wait to go to bed," I whisper.

A/N: R&R please! "Reviews feed my muse!" One more chapter to go!


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: I'll let you in on a secret about how I write my fics. I'm taking this superbly boring lecture class, so I scribble down drafts and ideas for my chapters. Then I go around with crumpled up bits of paper in my pockets until I can have some time alone to type. Only today, I decided to enjoy the sunshine and sit on the grass. When I got up, my back pocket and my fic notes were all wet. So here goes interpreting my smudges…

**Chapter 6**

"Hey, it's alright," Peeta says as he runs his hand over my forehead, "We'll get out of here real soon. Your fever's through the roof, and I thought alcohol was supposed to cool you down…"

We just sit there for a while, Peeta holding me and supporting my weight. The cool, dark bathroom is soothing my prickling senses. Except for the fact that I feel completely awful, I don't want this moment to end.

Peeta makes to pull me to my feet. "Here, let's clean you up a little so we can go get Haymitch and Effie," he says.

I try to say "wait," but instead I retch again.

"Okay, okay," Peeta soothes, "okay." He guides me back over the toilet. After a few painful heaves, a thin stream of water comes up. Peeta strokes my head.

When I'm done and breathing heavily, I feel hot and trembly. I shrug the cashmere wrap off my prickling skin. It's stained with liquor and vomit. Peeta rubs his hands over my bare shoulders.

"I need to go get Haymitch," Peeta whispers in my ear. "Will you be okay for a minute?"

I nod at the toilet bowl and croak, "Yeah." Peeta kisses the top of my head and carefully slips out of the bathroom.

I spit a few strings of foul tasting mucous from the corners of my mouth. Then I flush the toilet and haul myself to my feet. I stumble to the sink to splash my face and rinse out my mouth. I'm shaking so hard that I have to clutch the basin to stay upright.

Once I've found my balance, I bend forward to suck water from the tap. I raise my head to swish and spit, but on my way up, I jar my upper lip on the hard edge of the faucet. Prickles of pain and shock shoot up my sinuses and down my jaw. I wince and let out a gasp as I quickly cough the water back out.

Tears are filling my eyes for what feels like the hundredth time today. I splash cool water on my hot face, then hang my head over the sink, not bothering to turn off the tap.

The only way this could have gone worse is if I'd had puked right on the peacekeeper's shoes. Well, no it would have been much, much worse if I'd spewed on Effie and her fancy high heels. I'd been hoping that I could just come to the bathroom and sit on the floor for a while, lean against the wall and relax while Effie and Haymitch carried on the drunk-sick act for me.

If only I hadn't drunk Haymitch's disgusting malted barley concoction. I silently curse at myself, swearing never to drink liquor again. Not even a sip. Not even when I don't have the flu.

The door to the bathroom bangs against the wall. Peeta's hand turns off the water flow.

"Hey sweetheart." Haymitch's voice sounds behind me. "Effie's getting them to bring a car around in a couple of minutes. So we can go back to the train."

"Thank you," I whisper. I straighten up from the sink. Peeta is right there next to me, the concerned wrinkle he's been wearing all day is prominent between his brows. I wrap my arms around his waist and rest my forehead on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," I breathe.

"Hey, none of this is your fault," Peeta replies softly.

"But—I'm sorry," I say, not finding any other way of expressing how I feel. What I mean is that I'm sorry I put you through all this nonsense, I'm sorry I'm snapping at you one minute and kissing you the next, I'm sorry that I'm getting puke on your shirt as you hold me, I'm sorry that we can't just lay in bed forever with no responsibilities or pressures from the Capital…

"You good to go sweetheart?" Haymitch asks. "We gotta go meet the car out back." He picks up my stained wrap from the floor and tosses it to me. "You're a mess," Haymitch observes as I try to arrange the cashmere clean-side-out to cover the worst of the stains on my dress.

"Thanks," I mutter. Peeta wraps his arm protectively around my shoulders as we exit the bathroom. The cameras find us a little ways down the hallway. I keep my head on Peeta's shoulder and my eyes trained on his face so I don't have to look directly into the camera. I feel disgusting and want the goddamn Capital to let me suffer in private.

"Yeah, yeah, just gotta go sleep it off, ya know?" I hear Haymitch boisterously telling the camera as he walks a few steps in front of Peeta and me.

We wind our way through the building's halls for minute, then we meet Effie at the same back door where we entered earlier. It feels like we've been in district 8 for a lifetime, but it's really only been about six hours.

Effie's chirping away as usual, apologizing to someone, muttering about different pills to give me, yammering about how long it will take to reach district 7 from here… I'm not listening.

We pile into the car, Effie in front with the driver, and me sandwiched between Peeta and Haymitch in the back. I lay my throbbing head in Peeta's lap. He strokes the skin above my left ear, but it's too tender, so I pull his hand down to my cheek. The pressure feels good; it gives me confidence that my face is not going to fall off, and I'm so nauseous that I fee like it just might.

My stomach jumps into my throat as the car begins to move. I know it's only a few minutes drive to the train. I try to breathe deeply and relax, but I can't stop from retching. I bring up a tiny amount of water and bile, which I end up spitting onto the floor of the car between my feet. I swear under my breath.

Effie begins to chastise me for the poor manners displayed by my vomiting in the car, but Haymitch tells her to lay off.

I'm so wracked by the time we get to the train that I can barely keep my eyes open long enough to stumble up the steps and into my bedroom. I start toward the bed, but Peeta hauls me into the bathroom first. I sit on the floor in front of the toilet (with which I am very well acquainted) while Peeta pulls my dress over my head and wipes makeup and stomach contents from my face. I'm dressed only in my underclothes, but I'm so sick and sleepy that I can't bring myself to care.

I hack up a bit of slimy yellowish bile while Peeta sheds his suit and washes his own face. I'm asleep with my head on the toilet seat when he is kissing my cheeks and guiding me to bed. I collapse onto the mattress and burrow into the blankets. Peeta spoons me, arms wrapped around my shoulders. His skin is soft on mine, and I lean heavily into his chest. I'm finally comfortable. I sleep.

I'm surprised that it's light outside when I open my eyes. I slept through the night, something which is usually impossible when I'm as sick as I am. Was. I'm still tender and drenched in sweat, but I'm not aching or nauseous anymore.

I turn over to face Peeta. I can tell that he's awake, but feigning sleep so as not to disturb me. "Hi," I say hoarsely.

"Hi," he answers with a smile. "Your fever broke."

"Yeah," I say with a sigh of relief. "Thanks."

"Hey, I'd do anything for you," Peeta breathes, kissing my forehead. His lips feel wonderfully cool.

There's a knock on the door, and Haymitch sticks his head in. "You making another baby already?" He smirks.

I throw a pillow at him. "Hell no. Go away," I say.

Haymitch laughs. "Just wanted to say that you did great last night. News idiots are going on and on about poor you and how kind and selfless you are." I pick up another pillow and prepare to toss it. "Glad to see you're feeling better, then." He retracts his head and shuts the door.

I push myself into a sitting position and wipe sweaty hair out of my face. Peeta reaches over and retrieves a glass of water from the bedside table. I take it from him and swallow a cautious sip. It goes down smoothly. My throat and stomach welcome the soothing liquid after the strain of yesterday. I recognize that I'm quite thirsty. Hungry, too.

"Any chance of toast?" I ask Peeta.

He chuckles as he gets out of bed. "You really are feeling better," he says.

"Yes, so much better," I echo. Peeta tosses the pillow I threw at Haymitch back onto the bed.

"You know, maybe we should try it sometime," Peeta says.

"What?" I ask.

"Making a baby," he answers with a slight smile. "The Capital would eat it up." He's laughing now.

"Fuck no," I say, my expression torn between indignant and amused. "Get me some goddamn toast."

"You keep that look on your face, and I'll _really_ do anything for you," Peeta grins as he slips out the door and down the hall.

I lay back and smile too.

**END**

A/N: As always, please R&R. Reviews feed my muse.

New fic coming in a few days. See you all soon!

Oh, and I have a challenge for you: You write a nice hurt/comfort sick!fic and I'll lavish you with reviews and praise.


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